John actually enjoys grocery shopping; it gives him something to do for an hour or so. He even enjoys putting everything away when he gets back home, until he sees something left behind. Most likely an experiment. Sure, most of them are bloated or moldy and should probably be thrown away, but John can't bring himself to do it, no matter how often Mrs. Hudson threatens to do it herself. He can't touch them, what happens if he comes back? If he saw his experiments were gone he'd throw a fit. His face would scrunch up until he looked like an angry rabbit, the cutest rabbit that John has ever seen, and it doesn't help when he make those little snarls and growls. John knows he should be scared when he gets that way, but he can't help it, Sher- he is just so damn cute.
This is the image in John's head as he is driven home, to 221B Baker Street. He is in the car that Mycroft had said was available to him whenever he needed it. John doesn't like to impose on Mycroft's guilt, but he had bought too much food for a cabbie to take. It was Christmas in a little more than a week, Harry and her ex are coming over. John hopes they can be happy again, if his sister is happy, that brings him so much closer to being happy himself.
John is startled from his "Mind Palace," as he has affectionately called it since his trip to Baskerville. He and his best friend were on a case. It was where his best friend told John that he was his only friend. John regrets being so disgusted that he walked away. His partner has so many more friends than he thinks, not just John. The driver knocks on the window for the third time.
We must be here. John thinks.
"Do you need help with your bags, sir?"
"No, no Dennis. It's alright, just put them right inside the door there; I'll take it from there."
"Yes sir, very good sir," says Dennis, who is used to John's need for solitude.
John brings a few bags up the stairs at a time; he struggles between his new cane a worsening limp. He sets the bags down on the counter, next to the whale javelin and the pink lady's suitcase. John has to avoid looking at them or he'll remember. Remember his best friend. It's hard enough not to remember when half the city is covered in "#BelieveInSherlock" tags and he gets hundreds of anonymous texts every day. John has learned that the best way to avoid these visual representations of his best friend is to keep his head down. His entire world has become the carpet and his shoes, the same ratty old shoes that he was wearing when he met him, the same shoes he wore outside that hospital. No matter how often he tells himself that he needs new shoes, he can't bring himself to do it. These shoes, like everything else in the small apartment, belong to his best friend.
Well, all the perishable items are in the fridge. I can take a rest and get the rest of the groceries later, thinks John as he sits down in his chair. He sighs and throws his head back. He hadn't realized how much his feet hurt.
After a few moments of taking it all in, John rights himself and opens his eyes. He is bewildered, instead of the usual empty chair in front of him, he sees a person inside the chair. Not just any person.
"No, you can't possibly be…" John says as he rubs his eyes to make sure he's not seeing things. He opens his eyes again, only to see two pale eyes staring right back at his.
"I can't possibly be what, John? Here? In front of you, back in my chair?"
"Well, yes. You died. I was at the funeral. You can't be here."
Oh, come off it. Don't even try to pretend, you know perfectly well that I can see right through you."
"I need a cup of tea, I've finally lost it."
"No John, don't you want to know how I escaped my death?"
"Tea, then story."
Sherlock said nothing as John went into the kitchen to make himself a pot of tea. He needed John's full attention for what he was about to tell him next, it could wait fifteen more minutes.
